Mission Report: Impossible
by Peace Like a River
Summary: "So... should we fire them?" "Probably." Nova Prime takes in the train wreck of colors, the haphazard editing marks, the blatant use of all-caps... and is that a stick figure of her in the margins? Team-fic, in which the Guardians write the best-worst mission report in the history of the Nova Corp. Established Starmora.
1. Chapter 1

**Mission Report: Impossible**

_**Disclaimer:**_

**I own absolutely nothing—if the Guardians of the Galaxy universe were a kingdom, then James Gunn and Marvel would be supreme rulers of all, and I would be a penniless outlander, playing at being queen.**

**So, I really don't know where this came from. I was working on my Rocket origin story *cough*shameless plug*cough*, when this little idea popped up and just wouldn't go away until I addressed it. Enjoy!**

* * *

><p>"Really?" Rocket says, hovering over the page. "<em>That's<em> the best you could come up with? 'The mark was large and heavy'," he reads out loud. "'In fact, he was as large and as heavy as a 247-pound rock.'" He tries to hold in a snort, and to his credit, at least it escapes as more of a wheeze.

"I thought it was a good application of the 'metaphor' technique," Drax grumbles, pretending not to be hurt. He snatches the page back from Rocket, crumples it into a ball, and flings it into the rapidly growing pile of failed drafts in the corner of the _Milano_ common room.

"Okay, first of all," Rocket says, ducking the paper ball, "I don't think that even _counts_ as a metaphor, and secondly, why the hell are you writing metaphors, anyway? It's a mission report, not a haiku. Just write the frickin' thing."

"Our friend Gamora suggested that if I wished to better understand metaphors, I should practice using them. But if you are so invested in the quality of my report, then _you_ write it," Drax says, pushing a pen and fresh piece of paper in his direction.

"Oh-ho no, not a chance," Rocket laughs, sliding the pen and paper back. "_You_ drew the short straw, not me. Besides, this is the best entertainment I've had on this space-bucket since we convinced Quill his neck-mole was a sack of shnikra eggs."

"Still not cool!" Quill's voice booms through the _Milano's_ loudspeakers, causing feedback. "Have you ever _tasted_ the antidote for shnikra venom?"

"Yeah, yeah, cry me a river," Rocket says into the intercom, smirking. "That was hysterical and you know it."

Drax opens his mouth to ask how eye-duct fluid could possibly be produced in sufficient quantities to create a self-sustaining body of water, then thinks better of it. After having traveled in close quarters with the Guardians for the past three months, it was safe to assume 'metaphor' when in doubt.

Rocket grabs another page from the table. "Seriously, Quill, get off the intercom and come see this draft," he says. "It's so bad, it's almost a masterpiece, listen: 'The mark was as large and as heavy as a 247-pound rock. He carried more arms than an eight-armed globnark, except of course, the mark's arms were not arms in the biological sense, but rather weapons, since that is how the metaphor goes. We were not prepared for a diplomat to be so heavily armed; therefore, we were required to, as Star-Lord put it, 'make it up on the fly'. Except that we did not actually fly, since we had neither the wings nor the artificial equipment to do so.'"

By the end of the paragraph, Rocket is back to wheezing and wiping at his eyes. Drax seethes quietly, embarrassed by the criticism, and wishing he had drawn the straw for literally anything else—even emptying out the septic tanks.

Quill, meanwhile, is uncharacteristically quiet. Then, faintly, over the intercom—"_That's_ our mission report? The one that's due in... less than six hours? The one that our future dealings with the Nova Corp depend on, if we want to keep up a steady, _non_-criminal source of income?"

"Yep," Rocket says, popping the _p_.

Quill gives a sigh, which through the loudspeakers, becomes a cosmic _THWOOM_.

"Plus he writes like a girl," Rocket adds for good measure.

"Thank you!" Drax suddenly brightens.

Rocket stares. "You... realize that wasn't a compliment, right?"

"Yes, it was," Drax says, confused. "On my planet, we teach our young to strive for perfection in all things, including the art of writing by hand. However, female students tend to attain a higher mastery of the art than do the males. So by saying I write like a girl, you are complimenting me."

"Never mind." Rocket rolls his eyes. "Anyway, Quill, what do you think?"

A beat of silence from their fearless leader. "Well," he says finally, "I think now's as good a time as any to use this." Before they have time to ask him what he means—

_AROO. AROO. AROO._ The alarm system slams to life. Red lights flash from the ceiling, safety lights race along the walls, and sirens blare at full volume. "_All hands to the Milano common room_," the loudspeakers sound above the chaos. "_This is Star-Lord, I repeat, all hands to the Milano common room._"

"What the hell, Quill!" Rocket shouts into the intercom. He covers his ears and shuts his eyes against the lights. Drax glances at him, unsure of how to respond to the alarms. After a long minute, the sounds and lights cut out, and Quill saunters into the common room with a grin.

"I've always wanted to push that button," he says casually.

Rocket is still tallying up all the possible ways he could dismember his idiot captain, when Gamora and Groot rush through the common room door.

"Perfect," Quill grins. He opens his hand to reveal a small device, and with a dramatic push of the button, the doors lock behind his confused teammates. All five of them are now trapped in the small room together, with nothing but two armchairs, a coffee station and table, a pile of failed reports in the corner, and a communications console at the far end of the room.

"Peter," Gamora says, her voice dripping dangerously, "what are you doing, and why did you sound the alarms?"

"I'll get to that in a minute, I promise," he says apologetically, putting his hands around her waist and pecking her on the forehead. Her hair is soaking wet, which means that he interrupted her shower. He'll probably pay for that later, but right now, he has more pressing matters to worry about. "Catch, Groot," he says, tossing him the device in his hand. "That's the door opener. Right now, it's our only way in or out of this room, and I want you to guard it with your life," he says dramatically. "Those doors can_not_ open. There will be no coming or going, other than _that_ kind of 'going'"—he points to the adjoining bathroom—"until our mission report is finished."

"I am Groot," the tree nods sagely, tucking the device somewhere in his chest vines.

"I do not understand." Gamora frowns, wringing out her hair. "This is about the mission report? Drax was going to write it—it was assigned to him."

"Well... that was the initial plan, yes. Now, not so much," Quill hedges.

"Read this, you'll see what we mean." Rocket takes the page in front of him, crumples it into a ball, and tosses it over to Gamora. She snatches it out of the air and smooths it out in one fluid motion.

"Ah," she grimaces, scanning its contents. "Now I understand." The attempted wordplay involving 'guns' and 'puns' is particularly horrific. But notably, underneath the failed metaphors and similes, the paper is not _that_ bad. "At least your spelling and grammar is immaculate," she tells Drax encouragingly.

Some of the tension in his shoulders loosens. "Thank you. I thought so myself."

"But where is the rest of the report?" she asks, flipping the page over. "This is only the part about securing the target."

"I... I haven't written the rest of it yet," Drax says. He is happy enough to write about knife fights, or hand-to-hand fights, or fights with explosives... but the idea of writing the narrative immediately before and after the action seems dry and uninviting to him. "I am not even sure what a mission report should look like," he admits.

"Okay," Peter says. "Then that seems like a good place to start. Gamora, can you fill us in?"

She shakes her head. "I wish I could, but no. Thanos never requested mission reports. I would simply receive my mission, see it to completion, and report back to him. I gave a verbal report of my actions, or more often, no report at all." Gamora looks to Rocket and Groot, hoping that the ex-cons know more about the subject than she does.

"I am Groot." Groot makes a stiff movement that, if you squinted, could be a shrug.

"Yeah, what he said," Rocket says. "In our line of work, so long as we delivered the mark on time, that was enough of a 'report' to keep the big man happy. We usually dragged 'em in, kicking and screaming, and called it a day. Not a lot of paperwork involved."

Peter blinks. "That's... absolutely terrifying. But yeah, that about sums up the Ravagers' M.O., too."

"Obviously, I am no more informed than any of you," Drax points out.

"So what I'm hearing is," Peter realizes out loud, "no one actually _knows_ how to write a mission report."

A collective shaking of heads. Well, Groot doesn't shake his head so much as tip it vaguely to one side, but the intent is there.

Quill sighs. "Okay, this might be harder than I thought. Everyone bring it in, we're going to divvy up the work."

The team groans, but given the impending deadline and the locked doors, they don't have much of a choice. Drax briefly wonders _what_ it is that they are meant to 'bring in', but follows suit when Gamora takes one of the armchairs. Quill straddles the arm of Gamora's chair, Rocket hops up onto the coffee table and sits cross-legged, and Groot sort of hovers over everything.

"The way I see it," Quill reasons, "there were four parts to our mission in Delta Cepheid: gathering intel, breaking in, securing the target, and breaking back out in one piece." He counts off the parts on his fingers. "The four of us can each contribute one section. And Groot can..." he pauses, considering the tree, who is chewing a sprout on his knuckle. "Groot can oversee or something," he waves vaguely. "While he guards the door-opener."

"I am Groot," the tree approves.

"I will rewrite the part about the fight," Drax volunteers.

"I'll take the break-out," Gamora says.

"Okay, and I'll write about the intel," Peter says, "which leaves Rocket with the break-in. Okay?" He looks to his teammate to confirm.

Rocket sighs. "Fine, whatever. Just let me grab a data-pad, and I'll be right back," he says, hopping off the table and walking over to the door. "Open 'er up, Groot."

"_No,_" Gamora says, in _that_ tone. The tone that could make any hardened killer dissolve into a puddle of quivering knees and elbows. Groot's fingers retreat sheepishly away from his chest vines, Rocket involuntarily takes a step away from the door, and even Quill sits up a little straighter. "If we let you leave this room," Gamora says, "I know for a fact that you will hide in the bowels of the ship until we've completed your share of the work."

"She's got a point," Quill says. "The way you avoid kitchen duty is an art—you'll have to teach me your ways sometime, Jedi Master."

Rocket squirms, looking trapped. "Look, I'll write my frickin' section, okay? But like I said, I'm grabbing a data-pad. Transcribing is faster."

Drax frowns. "I too doubt that you will return, if we allow you to leave."

Even Groot makes a shallow movement, that, if you squint, could be a nod. "I am Groot."

"Traitor," Rocket grumbles.

"Sorry man, majority rules," Quill says. "Let's just get this over with, okay?"

Rocket growls, frustrated. "Fine, hand me the frickin' paper. But don't say I didn't warn you." He glumly resumes his station on top of the coffee table.

Gamora passes out fresh sheets of paper, while Quill opens the coffee table drawer and pulls out several elementary school books that can be used as makeshift writing surfaces. He also pulls out a small box with a red, translucent top. "Here, pass these around," he says, opening the box to reveal a small collection of pens and pencils. "I left Earth on a school night, so these came with me. This one was my favorite," he grins, holding up a jumbo blue crayon. Normally, he is very protective of his remaining mementos from home. But tonight, his team is scrambling, and he doesn't mind making an exception.

Rocket grabs the first eye-catching thing he sees, which is an orange marker. Drax picks out a black felt-tip pen—he thinks that black is the strongest, most precise color. Gamora reaches for another black pen, but Quill stops her.

"Makes more sense if we all use different colors," he says, keeping a straight face as he hands her a green pen. She rolls her eyes at him, but takes it. "Interesting color choice," she comments, smirking.

"Oh, I know—I was impressed by my own subtlety," Quill says, making her laugh. He picks out a red pen for himself.

Groot looks a little left out, so Rocket tosses him a charcoal pencil, grimacing when his friend decides to swallow it instead of catch it. "Sorry 'bout that, Quill."

"Heh," Quill shrugs. "Art class was an experience I'd rather forget, anyway." He surveys the room, checking that his team has what they need. "Let's give ourselves an hour to write, then we'll compare notes. Everybody good?"

He listens to the chorus of "yes" and "I am Groot" and "do you mean 'good' in a moral sense" and "let's just frickin' get this over with".

"I'll take that as 'everybody's good'," Quill says. Then grinning, pen poised dramatically above the page: "Guardians... _write!_"

They are off to an auspicious start. In hindsight, he should have known it wouldn't last long.

Rocket looks up, scowling. "What's my section, again?"

"I am Groot."

"What does 'the third' mean?" Rocket demands. "It's not like I was keeping track of all the sections—saying 'the third' means nothing to me."

"Your friend is mistaken," Drax says. "The third section is mine. I asked for the break-out."

"No," Gamora frowns. "You asked for the fight scene, which I think is 'securing the target'. 'Securing the target' is the third section, but it is separate from the break-out. _I _am writing the break-out."

"I am Groot."

"Will ya quit saying 'second', 'third', 'eleventh', and just tell me what the hell I'm writing, already!"

Quill sighs. They're in for a long night.

* * *

><p><span>Four hours to deadline<span>

To the surprise of precisely no one, Quill's initial goal of an hour's worth of writing proves to be a bit optimistic. Between constant coffee breaks—which of course lead to constant bathroom breaks—not to mention complaints of writers' block, shameless procrastination, and short tempers all round, nearly two hours have elapsed before the first round of drafts is ready.

And, as is the nature of first drafts, they leave a lot to be desired.

Gamora only makes it about three-fourths of the way through Quill's first paragraph before she has to put down the page and rub at her temples. "Peter, I love you," she grinds out, "but your spelling is _deplorable._ Were you even trying, or was this your idea of a joke?"

"Hey, cut me some slack," he says plaintively. "Last time I set foot in a classroom, I was nine. And after that, I was raised by space pirates. Space pirate _hillbillies_. So sue me if I still have the essay-writing skills of a fourth grader."

Gamora's fingers dig even harder into her temples. "'Fourth grade' would be a generous assessment. Still," she adds in a softer tone, "you cannot be blamed for your upbringing." She would know, better than most.

By now, Peter can read her well enough to know that that was her version of an apology—he holds out his hand to her, and she takes it.

Drax gets up, walks over to Gamora, and peers over her shoulder. "The grammatical structure is correct," he points out after a moment. "It is only the spelling that requires improvement—I would be happy to edit this for you," he offers.

Quill blinks. "Actually, sure—that would be great, thanks." He grins.

Drax starts to go through the page systematically. He painstakingly corrects each error, using neat lines to cross off misspelled words, carets to indicate insertions, and cursive to substitute the proper spelling.

It's not until a full two minutes have passed and he is still only halfway through the first paragraph that he realizes the magnitude of the task ahead of him. Some of the words are so badly butchered that, even after studying their context, he will need to ask Quill to translate.

This is going to be a long night.

* * *

><p>Meanwhile, Gamora has moved on to the next page: Rocket's section on the break in.<p>

She imagines that the mechanic's writing style will more or less mirror his speaking style: tactless and crude, but capable enough in its own way. She further imagines that, whatever Rocket has written, his contribution to the mission report can't _possibly_ be worse than Peter's.

She is very, _very_ wrong.

The page is covered from top to bottom in illegible scrawl. Gamora squints at the page, as if it will somehow rearrange itself into coherent text if viewed correctly. She turns the page from side to side. Then upside-down entirely. Still no luck. She is about to be angry, about to ask Rocket why he has wasted their time with meaningless scribbling, when something catches her eye. Upon further inspection, she realizes that she can pick out some of the individual characters. She finds the letter _I_ here, a letter _O_ there... The scribbles are not meaningless after all, but it is still impossible to make out a single word.

"Rocket," she asks slowly, "what is this?" She pushes the page towards the middle of the table. Drax and Quill lean in to look, while Rocket instead looks at the floor.

"I warned you," he mutters. "I wasn't trying to get out of doing the work—well, okay, I wasn't _just_ trying to get out of doing the work—I really did want that data-pad. I don't know how to write."

Three faces peer at him in horror. Groot, on the other hand, just looks sympathetic.

"I mean, I can _write_, obviously," Rocket clarifies, bristling. "Give me a data-pad and I can type. Give me a screen and I can read in eight different languages. But paper? Bleh. Why bother with that ancient shit."

Drax considers that for a moment. "But have you never encountered a situation in which it would be advantageous to write by hand?"

"Well I mean... Maybe. Yeah." He shuffles awkwardly. "But who cares, it's no big loss."

"But it is immensely satisfying to write by hand!" Drax protests.

"He's right." Gamora nods. "It can be very therapeutic."

Quill thumps the floor beside him, in a 'sit here' gesture. "Park it here, I'll teach you. We'll rewrite your page together."

Rocket snorts. "I'll pass, thanks. Got better things to do than take lessons from a third grader." He crosses his arms defensively.

"_Fourth_ grader," Quill corrects, finger in the air, "and besides, you owe me one. Actually, if we're keeping count, you owe me about... fifteen, but if you let me walk you through the characters, we'll call it even. Okay?"

Rocket hesitates.

"Actually, Rocket has a point," Gamora admits. "I am sorry, Peter, but your attempts at handwriting are passable at best." She turns to Rocket. "_I_ would be happy to walk you through the characters."

"My chicken scratch and I resent that," Quill grumbles halfheartedly, but doesn't argue—Gamora's neat print, gently rounded, with the perfect slant to the right, is legendary.

"If you are familiar with typing," Gamora continues, "then you already know what the characters look like. All you must do is practice how to draw them, until your muscles memorize each one."

Quill nods. "Yeah, think of it like sketching. Simple, repetitive sketching."

"I have noticed the weapon plans you sometimes draw for the Nova Corp," Drax adds. "Writing by hand is considered much easier than drawing a competent sketch."

"Gamora won't even change what you've written," Quill adds, looking to her to confirm. "She'll just help you make it a little neater."

Gamora nods in agreement.

"I am Groot."

Rocket glares at the tree. "Some friend you are. Take _their_ side, why don't ya."

Groot looks at him reproachfully. "I am _Groot_."

Rocket pulls at the fur at the sides of his face and sighs. "Fine. But no guarantees this will actually stick." He puts on a show of dragging his feet and kicking papers aside as he makes his way over to Gamora. In truth, though, he's surprisingly okay with the idea of learning how to write. In fact, he's curious. He just hopes Gamora doesn't notice.

Gamora does notice, of course, and a smile tugs at the corner of her mouth, but she knows better than to rat out her stubborn teammate. Instead, she pushes a clean sheet of paper in his direction. Three months ago, he would have probably died before admitting a weakness—_any_ weakness. The fact that he is willing to learn from her now—as opposed to blasting down the common room doors with a weapon slapped together out of coffee maker parts—speaks volumes to how far they've come. "To keep things simple," she tells him, "we should stick with capital letters for now. This is how I write an _A_." She draws the first character in large print for his benefit: up-down in the same stroke, then across.

_Oh._ That made more sense than what he'd been trying to do: he'd been aiming for a triangle, followed by two diagonal tails on either side. He lifts his marker, to copy her method.

"Wait," Gamora stops him. "Take this instead." In her outstretched hand is the jumbo blue crayon.

Rocket stares at her flatly, then starts to bristle. "You have got to be frickin' kidding me."

Quill considers taking cover behind the chairs, to wait out the inevitable explosion. Drax considers putting aside Quill's paper, to _join_ the inevitable explosion. Groot plays with his finger vines.

"You were having trouble with the marker," Gamora explains calmly, tipping her chin towards the thin stylus in Rocket's hand. "Trust me—this will be better."

"That," Rocket growls, "is for a child."

"No," she says carefully. "This is for someone with small hands, who is learning to write."

"Yeah, or in other words, a child."

"You are becoming upset over nothing."

"Well, I'm sorry if people _mocking_ me tends to upset me—"

"I would never mock you—"

"The hell you wouldn't!"

"Stop fighting me, and take the damn crayon! Or would you rather be stuck here all night, with _us_?" She gestures towards the figures beside them—one wary, one eager, and one sympathetic.

"I am Groot," Groot reprimands gently.

Rocket sighs, ears back, deflated. "Whatever. Only 'cause I want to get out of here." He whips the crayon out of Gamora's hand. "Can I go ahead now and actually _write_, oh great and wise instructor, or are there any other teaching aids you wanna recommend for me? Maybe some tracing paper? Or those little magnetic letters? Or a step-by-step video tutorial for the mentally deficient?"

Gamora grits her teeth. "You may write."

Drax looks a little disappointed that the ex-convict and ex-assassin have fallen just short of coming to blows. "If a fight is no longer imminent," he says, "then I am going to brew another pot of the beverage Quill calls 'coffee'. His spelling has given me a headache." He holds up the page for the rest of the team to see: the first quarter or so has almost as much black cursive as red print, and the rest of the page has yet to be marked.

"Heh," Quill says sheepishly. "Honestly, I didn't think it was _that_ bad."

Gamora sighs. Disaster has been averted for now, but they have only one character down and twenty-five more to go, and her student is already on the edge. It is going to be a long night.

* * *

><p><span>Three-and-a-half hours to deadline<span>

Luckily, Rocket proves to be a quick study after all. And although he would rather die than admit it, the jumbo crayon _does_ help. After fifteen minutes, he is able to duplicate the alphabet to Gamora's satisfaction. After another twenty, he has written a legible copy of his original page.

Drax and Quill, meanwhile, are still working together to correct Quill's section. Every once in a while, Drax looks up, exasperated, and demands a translation of '_i-m-p-a-r-s-h-u-n'_ or _'r-u-b-a-t-i-k'_ or _'i-n-n-e-r-s-i-p-t'_. "Oh, _impression_," Peter replies, as if it were the most obvious answer in the galaxy. "Robotic." "Intercept."

Groot, on the other hand, is preoccupied with more important matters. He appears to have sprouted something new from his fingers—something that, oddly enough, resembles the tip of the charcoal pencil he swallowed earlier. He tests his fingertips, drawing them across his torso and smiling delightedly when they leave thick, dark marks, just like a pencil. He decides to put his newfound ability to the best possible use: sneaking illustrations onto the other Guardians' pages when they are on coffee break or otherwise occupied. So far, his artistic contributions include a stick figure of Nova Prime, a sketch of the drones that attacked them on their mission, and a passable layout of their target facility. Since Gamora's page has been left unattended, Groot is now decorating it with a sketch of the entire team safely back on the Milano. He is very proud of it.

Blissfully unaware of the unrequested additions to her own page, Gamora is inspecting Rocket's. "Huh," she says. Now that she can actually _read_ the words on his page, they catch her off-guard. "We will have to recopy a word here and there, to improve legibility," she says, cautiously laying down her green pen, "but this is... surprisingly acceptable."

"Here, let me see," Peter asks, slipping an arm around her waist. She hands him the page.

Peter scans it, then gives a low whistle. "Wow. Didn't see that coming. I mean, I could do without the all-caps and the pointlessly confrontational tone, but other than that, yeah, this is fine."

"Told you," Rocket says smugly.

"Hey now, don't forget us little people," Quill says. "Gamora is an excellent teacher," he adds, waggling his eyebrows at his girlfriend, who smiles coyly.

Rocket wrinkles his nose. "Yeah, well, don't pat yourselves on the back too hard," he says flippantly. "Hunger is a better motivator than any of you assholes could ever hope to be. I'm starving—all I want to do is get those doors unlocked so I can clean out the kitchen from top to bottom."

Gamora rolls her eyes at him. "'You' and 'clean' and 'kitchen' in the same sentence. If only." But there is no heat to their words, and they are smirking playfully at each other, so this is probably as close to _'thank you'_ and _'you're welcome'_ as they are capable of getting. "We can put this aside for now, and revisit it at the end," Gamora decides. "I am almost frightened to see what Drax has come up with."

Peter grimaces sympathetically. "I'll get you another cup of coffee—you'll probably need it."

She smiles after him, gratefully.

Meanwhile, Drax snaps to attention upon hearing his name. He rifles through the pile of papers to find his draft, walks it over to Gamora, and declares proudly— "This is my best attempt yet!"

"That's not saying much," Rocket mutters under his breath.

"What was that?"

"Nothing."

Gamora takes the page, smiling weakly. "I am sure it is a fine draft," she says, lying through her teeth.

Surprisingly, the metaphors within the draft are not as bad as she expects. They are much, _much_ worse.

"I... This is... I..." She sputters, floundering for words of encouragement, while the light slowly drains out of Drax's expression.

"What Gamora is trying to say," Rocket says, finally taking pity on them both, "is that you suck." He takes the paper from Gamora's hands and speed reads it, drawing his finger down the middle of the page. He can't help but snort at some of the most pathetic attempts at wordplay, but for the most part, he manages to keep a straight face. "Well..." He coughs. "Lucky for us, at least you suck in an way that's easily fixable. I can work on your section, while you work on Quill's."

"Really?" Drax brightens a bit.

"Wouldn't've offered if I didn't mean it," Rocket shrugs. Internally, he is groaning at the mountain of work ahead of him. He wasn't lying when he said that Drax's mistakes were easily fixable—they are, but there are just so damn _many_ of them that properly addressing each one will take time... maybe more time than they have left. He glances at the clock. Three hours to go. He trusts himself to churn out the edit faster than any of his teammates could—with the possible exception of Gamora, who is already overworked—but this could be a stretch, even for him.

It's gonna be a long and shitty night.

* * *

><p><span>Two hours to deadline<span>

Groot is pleased with his handiwork. His finger-drawing on Gamora's page now includes a recognizable outline of the _Milano_, and inside his _Milano_ is the likeness of each Guardian—or at least a passable stick figure of each one. The Peter-figure has his signature headphones and Walkman, the Gamora-figure has long hair and is shaded green, the Drax-figure is tall and covered in scribbles that, if you squinted, vaguely resembled his tattoos, and the Rocket-figure is short, with pointed ears and a long, exaggerated tail nearly twice his height.

But then Groot realizes—he has forgotten an important element of the picture. Namely, himself. He frowns, unsure of how best to proceed. But after pondering for a moment, he smiles, walks over to Peter's pen and pencil box, and rummages inside until he finds his roll of sticky tape. He takes a piece of the adhesive, breaks a small sprout off of his kneecap, and tapes the sprout directly onto the page, next to the Rocket-figure.

Perfect! Now to show off his handiwork. Peter is the closest team member, so Groot takes the page and shoves it under his nose. "[Look what I made]!" he says eagerly.

"Not now, Groot," Quill waves him away, distractedly. Then, to Drax— "I'm pretty sure 'cyborg' is spelled with an _s_ at the beginning, no?" It takes Quill's brain a while to catch up with his eyes, but when it does, he pauses mid-edit, poking his tongue into the pocket of his cheek. "Wait a minute, Groot," he says. "Come back with that." He takes the paper, and this time, he actually _looks_ at it.

"[Do you like it]?" Groot asks hopefully. But Quill isn't looking at what he's drawn—he is looking at what Gamora has written.

"_Upon securing the target in an infallible and timely manner befitting of world-class assassins and_ _operatives, __the alarming, disquieting revelation was discovered of the blockage of the initial entry point: the blockage being contrived by remote directive by the mark and composed out of advanced robotic units, that, once brought to light, were a distressing hindrance in preventing the team from traversing the predetermined route by which Star-Lord had schemed to have the team escape, impervious and intact, toward the vessel of interstellar transport commonly known as the Milano and thusly dubbed by the riders therein._"

Heart sinking, Quill reads further down, hoping that the page will eventually unclog itself.

It doesn't.

_Well, shit._ "Er, Gamora?" he calls to her across the room. "We may have a slight problem."

She looks at him blearily from the coffee station.

"There's, uh, a good chance you'll want to dismember me after this, but... this is bad," he says, indicating her page. "Like really, _really_ bad. It's just so awkward: no one would talk or think like this. You don't have to use a hundred words when all you need is a couple of small ones."

Up til now, he hadn't even thought about the possibility that Gamora's writing might be just as rough as everyone else's—maybe even more so. Gamora was the picture of precision and efficiency: he had no idea how she could have possibly produced the rambling, obtuse page of run-ons in front of him.

Quill is sitting with his back to the coffee table, so Rocket scrambles up behind him, peeks over his shoulder, and reads. "Holy shit, you're right," he says, nearly spewing coffee everywhere. "This doesn't even sound like you," he tells Gamora. "This sounds like a thesaurus vomited all over the page."

Gamora shoots them a death glare, and Quill could swear she was reddening, except she doesn't redden so much as turn a murky gray-ish color.

"I'm only saying this 'cause I care!" Quill scrambles, trying to salvage the situation.

Ignoring his plight, Drax glances at the page and shrugs. "At least her spelling is pristine."

Gamora nods crisply. "Thank you, Drax. I thought so myself. Although I am not sure how this pencil drawing got here..." she says, eyeing the charcoal artwork.

Groot makes a sheepish noise and points to the sprout taped on the page. "I am... Groot."

Rocket facepalms. "You are hopelessly weird, Groot—you know that, right?"

Quill senses the situation spiraling rapidly out of control. "Focus, team," he says. "We've got less than two hours left, and I'm sorry, Gamora—I love you—but we can't submit... _this._" He flaps helplessly at the page.

"So fix it," Rocket butts in. "Make it... I don't know, flow better, and shit. Gamora can work with you on the spelling."

Quill sighs, frustrated. "Do we even have time?"

"Do we even have a choice?" the ex-con shoots back. "You're the one who said it: our future with the Nova Corp is riding on this report. So unless you're looking forward to hitting the unemployment line..."

"Why would Quill act violently towards the people standing in an unemployment line?" Drax asks before he can filter himself. "As far as I know, they have not wronged him."

Rocket groans.

"'Hitting the unemployment line' simply means that he will be out of a job, now will you please worry less about metaphors, and more about our deadline?" Gamora explains in a single breath.

Drax grumbles, but complies.

"Okay," Peter says, eyes closed, trying to wrap his brain around all the moving parts. "Okay. So, in the next two hours, here's what's going to happen: Drax will finish correcting my spelling," he says, ticking off the tasks on his fingers. "Rocket will fix Drax's use of metaphors. Gamora will check that every word in Rocket's section is legible, and rewrite whatever isn't. That shouldn't take long, so when she's finished, she and I will make her paper... 'flow better, and shit'," he finishes lamely, when his brain fails to supply a better expression. "Everybody good?"

He mostly ignores the chorus of "not really, Peter" and "I am Groot?" and "I dunno about this" and "I still do not know whether you mean 'good' in a moral sense."

"Keep it together, team. We're good, we got this," he says stubbornly, determined to spur them on if it kills him—and honestly, it just might. "Guardians... _write!_"

* * *

><p><span>Fifteen minutes to deadline<span>

In the end, their hands are smudged in the strange charcoal substance from Groot, the blue crayon is mashed into the floor from when Drax accidentally stepped on it, Rocket is complaining of 'writer's cramp' while secretly mourning the loss of the crayon, and the ship's resident lovebirds are dotted in green and red ink from an intense argument over word usage. But no one is bleeding, and the ship is still flying, and most importantly, a passable draft of the mission report is finally, _finally_ sitting in front of them.

"Finally," Drax says, after one last check for spelling and grammar.

"Finally," Rocket flops on his back, on top of the coffee table.

"Finally," Gamora echoes, sitting back in her chair.

"I am Groot."

Although Gamora would never admit it out loud, Peter's edits have vastly improved her section: he has somehow preserved her original intent, while making the sentences flow in a more conversational manner. "Now we type it up and submit it before the deadline," she says.

"Hell no, we're not typing up this beauty!" Quill protests. He takes the pages from Drax, taps the edges against the tabletop to line them up, and proudly holds up the resulting bundle in both hands. "And we're not transcribing it, either. We're turning this in to Nova Prime as is." He heads to the communications console at the far end of the room, bearing the report in front of him like a precious artifact.

Gamora and Drax stare at him as if a shnikra hatchling were sprouting from his neck-mole, after all. Rocket looks ambivalent, probably dreaming of that long-awaited kitchen raid. Groot plucks a sprout at his shoulder.

"We can't submit _that_," Gamora finally manages, rising to her feet. "Not for an official report to the Nova Corp."

Drax nods. "We have a professional image to maintain."

"I am Groot."

"I'm with Groot. Image is a moot point by now," Rocket says. "We're outlaws with longer rap sheets than education records—Prime knew exactly what she was getting herself into when she tapped us for the job."

Gamora purses her lips. "Look, we are _not_ submitting that to Nova Prime. Just look at it!" The colors, the use of all-caps, the sloppily crossed out sections, to say nothing of the _doodles_—the issue wasn't even up for a debate.

"Aw come on, she's gonna love it," Quill grins. "She'll probably stick it up on her fridge and everything. Besides," he adds, stepping away from the console, both hands open, "I already sent it." He grins as the machine behind him emits an incriminating _ping_, along with an electronic voice: _"File sent."_ After a few seconds— _"File received."_

Rocket sits up and looks at him incredulously. "You have a _fax machine_ in your comm-console? Talk about ancient shit."

Drax agrees. "On my world, such machines have long been decommissioned. Or re-purposed as doorstops."

Gamora is back to rubbing at her temples. "You are all missing the point. When Nova Prime sees that report and realizes the depths of our collective incompetence, I _guarantee_ we will never be offered another mission. Ever. And where does that leave us?"

The team lets that sink in for a moment.

"I am Groot," Groot says sadly, breaking the silence.

"Shit," Rocket says. "Groot's right—we're doomed."

"I too agree with his assessment," Drax mourns.

"I can't believe we just did all that work, for nothing." Rocket starts to seethe. "Whose stupid idea was this lock-in, anyway?"

"Come on, team, cut the melodrama," Quill says, although even he is starting to squirm uncomfortably. "Everything will be fine?" It comes out more like a question than a reassuring statement from their fearless leader.

"Doom," Gamora says, resigned to her fate. "Doom by fax machine."

* * *

><p><em><strong>Author's note:<strong>_

**Next chapter will show snippets of the final report, plus Nova Prime's reaction to it!**

**If you have any feedback or criticism at all, please let me know, so I can improve my 'team fics' in the future. I'm especially curious to know: Do you think I got the Guardians' voices right? Or do they seem off? (****My brain has been stuck in angst-writing mode for so long that it's hard to flip the switch to something more lighthearted.)**

**As always, thanks for reading and reviewing!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Mission Report: Impossible**

**In answer to some of the Starmora issues that were raised in the reviews, I definitely agree that it would be out of character for the pair to effortlessly trade 'I love you's, hold hands, and fly off into a sunset paradise right at the end of the film. Three months _after_ the end of the film, though... who knows? In terms of a relationship, a lot can happen in three months: personally, it's not too hard for me to imagine that Starmora might be an established pairing by then. That's just my opinion. Anyway, enjoy!**

* * *

><p><span>Fifteen minutes to deadline<span>

Almost noon on Xandar. The city thrums at the height of the workday, pulsing, moving, thriving. And at the center of it all, at the top of the tallest building... a frustrated Nova Prime sits in her office. Staring at a blank computer screen. Contemplating the fate of the Guardians of the Galaxy.

Which is ridiculous, really, considering the long list of calamities that demand her attention, as usual. Peace and war, life and death, oh-_stars_-it-may-actually-be-the-end-of-the-world calamities.

In the past day alone, she has received notice of an escaped war criminal on Yormot, a pending civil war in the Thel-Caria quadrant, and a broken disarmament treaty between the two leading exporters of hadron-weapons in the Federation of Erida. Not to mention, another Infinity Stone in the wind, last seen in the hands of a self-formed team of Terrans who had apparently harnessed its power to fend off a Chitauri invasion. But is Nova Prime dealing with any of the above? Is she preparing official statements, revisiting treaties, or worrying over the fact that a primitive planet like Terra may have advanced to a higher form of war? No. No, she is not.

Because her mind is stubbornly—inexplicably, _frustratingly_—fixated on the Guardians of the Galaxy. The ragtag team of ex-criminals, ex-assassins, and ex-God-knew-what-else, and the fact that she might have to let them go.

Firing any special ops team is an unhappy task. Firing a special ops team of criminals turned heroes—a redemption story, if ever she has heard of one—is almost unthinkable. But her duty is to act in the best interest of Xandar, regardless of her own personal sentiments.

Perhaps she doesn't have to fire them, per se. She could simply cut them down to four jobs a year, then three, and so on, until the bounties from the Nova Corp stop trickling in altogether. The team could slowly ease into some other means of livelihood—hopefully, not a criminal means.

Ten minutes to their deadline.

She had stressed the importance of the Delta Cepheid mission report. She hopes that, wherever the Guardians are, they will remember to submit it on time. Hopes, but highly doubts. And even then, their efforts might be too little, too late.

Of course, she wouldn't have to consider firing them at all, if they would simply get their act together. Because despite having worked together to save the galaxy, the Guardians are still at each other's throats more often than not: arguing, disregarding orders, picking apart each other's sensitivities. Even Peter Quill and the Zen-Whoberian woman, Gamora, who are purportedly in a romantic relationship, rarely see eye-to-eye on anything, from what Nova Prime has observed. And she cannot, in good conscience, continue to pour funds into a vanity team that is constantly on the verge of self-destruction. The Guardians are a loose cannon, a volatile unknown in the otherwise pristine order that Nova is founded upon, and something has to change.

She and Rhomann Dey had initially hoped to entrust the team to the leadership of Peter Quill. Perhaps they were to blame for laying such an impossible task on his shoulders. Because from what she can tell, Quill has proven hopelessly inadequate at reining in his teammates. They tend to rush in headlong, acting on impulse, with no clear leadership. As their almost-impressive collection of injuries from past missions will attest, the Guardians have been lucky to survive this long.

Five minutes to deadline.

Nova Prime sighs.

Unreliable. Unorganized. Unapologetic. The so-called Guardians of Galaxy, summed up in the space of a note card.

She wants to honor their past accomplishments—their bravery against Ronan—but as the leader of Nova, she needs to look to the future, not the past. She wants to give them a fighting chance as a special ops team, but she's already given them three months... Three stressful months of nearly botched missions, harrowing escapes, and not a shred of evidence that they are capable of changing their ways. Enough is enough.

_Beep._ The quiet sound of the intercom. She answers.

"Nova Prime speaking."

"Nova Prime, this is Denarian Dey. We've just received, uh, an unusual communication. I think it's a fax, to be exact."

"And who sent it?"

"The ID number came up as unknown, ma'am, but... I think it's from the Guardians. And I think you're going to want to see it."

* * *

><p><span>Five minutes past deadline<span>

"So... are you going to fire them?" Rhomann Dey asks, sounding disappointed.

"I haven't decided yet," Nova Prime answers. "I'll say this..." she adds dryly, "I doubt this report will win them any points." Flipping through the pages, she takes in the train wreck of colors, the haphazard editing marks, the blatant use of all-caps... And is that a line drawing of her in the margins? She shakes her head, at a loss. "Rhomann, give me a moment to look this over, would you?"

"Of course," he says. "Let me know if you need anything else." He exits the room and closes the door behind him.

Nova Prime certainly hadn't been expecting this. A missed report—or even a cleanly typed, one-page report—would have been far less surprising than this. Whatever _this_ is.

She flips back to the first page. It looks like it was originally written in red pen, then edited in heavy black ink, in a different hand. She reads an excerpt. Dear stars, there are almost as many words crossed out as original words left in:

* * *

><p>"The —perpuss— <strong>[purpose]<strong> of this —meshun— **[mission]**, as —givin— **[given]** to us by the —nova corr— **[Nova Corp]**, was to —retreev sinsitiv intell— **[retrieve sensitive intel]** that had —fallin— **[fallen]** into —enimy— **[enemy]** hands. —Becuz— **[Because]** the —intell— **[intel]** was —rumered— **[rumored]** to be in the —paseshun— **[possession]** of a —diplamat— **[diplomat]** from —delta seffid— **[Delta Cepheid]**, —eny envolvmint— **[any involvement]** on the part of the —nova corr— **[Nova Corp]** had to be off the —buks— **[books]**. —Therfour— **[Therefore]**, we —wer imployed— **[were employed]** to —pinpoynt— **[pinpoint]** the —locashun— **[location]** of the —intell— **[intel]**, —brake intwo— **[break into]** the —diplamatic— **[diplomatic]** base if —nesisary— **[necessary]**, and —sucksessfily iscape— **[successfully escape]** with the —targitt— **[target]**. The —marc— **[mark]** had to be —cept alife— **[kept alive]** at all costs, or the —alridy fragill peese— **[already fragile peace]** between —delta seffid— **[Delta Cepheid]** and Xandar would be —fourfitt— **[forfeit]**.

"—Owr furst leed— **[Our first lead]** in —pinpoynting— **[pinpointing]** the —locashun— **[location]** of the —stolin intell— **[stolen intel] **was an old —siborg— **[cyborg]** from the —owter sistims— **[outer systems]**, who had been —preeviusly imployed— **[previously employed]** by the —diplamat— **[diplomat]**. He told us of a —hiddin bas— **[hidden base]** within the —forrist— **[forest]**, where the —marc howzed— **[mark housed]** his most —tresered paseshuns— **[treasured possessions]**"...

* * *

><p>Nova Prime rubs at her eyes. The constant back and forth is giving her a headache. She turns the page, hoping that the second section will be an improvement on the first...<p>

Oh stars.

Before her is a sea of bright blue letters, all capitalized, written in a wide, uncertain hand. The letters do not appear to be written in ink: when she gently scrapes at the page and examines the substance that gathers under her nail, it appears to be some kind of wax. Woven throughout the blue letters is an occasional splash of green, printed in a neat hand: the green pen appears to be 'translating' the worst of the handwriting, as well as stripping the original text of its overly negative tone:

* * *

><p>"—AGAINST OUR BETTER JUDGMENT,— WE FOLLOWED —OUILL'S— <em>[Quill's]<em> PLAN, APPROACHING THE BASE FROM THE SOUTH. OUR ENCOUNTER WITH THE DRONE HAD PUT US —SLI6HTlV— _[slightly]_ BEHIND SCHEDULE, BUT WE STILL HAD MORE THAN ENOUGH TIME TO RETRIEVE THE TARGET BEFORE THE NEXT CHANGING OF THE GUARD.

THE —MORONS— _[guards]_ POSTED AT THE GATE WERE COMPLETELY —OBLIVDUS— _[oblivious]_ TO OUR APPROACH. UNFORTUNATELY FOR THEM, THE SURROUNDING FOG CREATED AN —IOEAL— _[ideal]_ SETTING FOR AN AMBUSH: IT DISGUISED OUR MOVEMENT THROUGH THE UNDERBRUSH AND KEPT THE AERIAL SCOUTS FROM DETECTING OUR POSITION. WE REACHED THE GATE WITHOUT INCIDENT, AND MADE OUR MOVE. WITH A FEW CAREFULLY PLACED VINES FROM GROOT, SEVERAL ENTHUSIASTICALLY DELIVERED HEAD-SHOTS FROM DRAX, AND A WELL-TIMED KNIFE —THRcVV— _[throw]_ BY GAMORA TO INCAPACITATE A RUNNER, WE SUCCESSFULLY CLEARED THE AREA.

I GOT TO WORK UNLOCKING THE OUTER DOORS. MY PREFERENCE WOULD HAVE BEEN TO —BLcVV— _[blow]_ THEM WIDE OPEN_,_ BUT SINCE STEALTH WAS A PRIORITY, —THE KILL-JOY— _[Gamora]_ OVERRULED ME: I HAD TO USE AN ADVANCED —DECRVPTDN— _[decryption]_ UNIT INSTEAD. A BOMB WOULD HAVE BEEN FASTER, BUT STILL, THE LAYERS OF BIO-LOCK TECHNOLOGY WERE —SO INCREDIBLY SHITTY THAT WE— _[surprisingly outdated, so we]_ BROKE THROUGH IN RECORD TIME. FROM THERE, ACCORDING TO QUILL, IT WAS A STRAIGHT SHOT DOWN THE CENTRAL CORRIDOR TO THE TREASURY, WHERE THE TARGET WAS KEPT"...

* * *

><p>All right, that was enough of that. Nova Prime looks up from the blue text, blinking away the orange afterimages.<p>

Readability aside, though, the report tells an unexpected story. Thus far, the mission events were not nearly as disastrous as she had imagined: no reckless ex-cons deviating from the mission plan, no in-fighting, no crashing and burning.

In fact, if this report was to be believed, then not only had Peter Quill put together a plausible plan of attack that played to the strengths of each team member and used the surrounding environment to their full advantage, but the Guardians had also executed that plan successfully. Had their victory against Ronan been more than a fluke, after all?

She decides to skip ahead to the next section. The third page appears to have been penned in thick black cursive, then overwritten with corrections in blue all-caps. Nova Prime flips back a few pages, comparing the handwriting. Ah. She was starting to get a clearer picture of how this report had come about. The owner of the black cursive, who had spell-checked the first section, was now having their work edited by the user of the blue all-caps—most likely the raccoon-hybrid, by process of elimination. Nova Prime can't help but smile as she reads on...

* * *

><p><strong>"Unluckily, the mark was prepared for our arrival. <strong><strong>—<strong>**According to Quill, he must have had ears everywhere, although I failed to understand how that could have been possible, biologically speaking.****— ******[WE MUST HAVE TRIGGERED A HIDDEN SURVEILLANCE SYSTEM: LIKE QUILL POINTED OUT, THE MARK WAS KNOWN FOR HAVING EYES AND EARS EVERYWHERE.]

**"I **—observed the mark** like an eagle—, **[WATCHED THE MARK LIKE A HAWK] **since I only trusted him ****—**inasmuch as I could toss him to the wolves in a wet paper bag— ****[ABOUT AS FAR AS I COULD THROW HIM]**. Sure enough, the mark was ****—****armed in the bicuspids **[ARMED TO THE TEETH]**. ********—He ****was a walking arsenal, except that of course, he was not actually composed of guns or blades or explosives****—**** **[HE CARRIED AN IMPRESSIVE ARSENAL OF GUNS, BLADES, AND EXPLOSIVES]**. Even so, we could have easily ******—******hit him until his body passed through the various layers of metal, concrete, and insulation that composed the floor, to reach the dirt below************— **********[PUMMELED HIM INTO THE GROUND]**********.**********

**"However, my teammates reminded me that the mark was **—**covered in invisible red tape, which I assumed would somehow deflect our weapons**—**** [PROTECTED BY A RED-TAPE TECHNICALITY, THAT GRANTED HIM DIPLOMATIC IMMUNITY].** Figuratively speaking, —our appendages were bound— **[OUR HANDS WERE TIED]**, so instead of —putting our finger to— **[SLICING]** his throat, we elected to** —**hello****-tale**— [HIGH-TAIL] **it past him.**

**"We made for the treasury like a bee to a flower, if that flower were all the way across the galaxy and would wilt that night, and could only be reached in time if the bee stowed away on a shuttle, and that shuttle took him to a spaceport where he boarded a ship and stung the pilot to make him accidentally hit the button to enter hyperdrive."**

Underneath is the following text:

"EDITOR'S NOTE: YOU KNOW, I WAS GONNA SCRAP THIS, BUT I KINDA LIKE IT. LET'S LEAVE IT IN."

* * *

><p>Dear stars in heaven.<p>

She bites at her lip.

She is the Nova Prime. She is stoic. She is self-controlled. She is stone. She is...

Bursting into peals of laughter. Bent over that ridiculous report, hands to her mouth in a pointless attempt to stifle herself, she laughs and laughs and _laughs_. She laughs until her eyes run and her abdomen aches.

_Beep._ The intercom sounds.

She fumbles for the button, trying to pull herself together. _Think of civil wars,_ she tells herself sternly. _Civil wars and escaped terrorists. _"Yes, what is it?" she manages, wiping away a tear.

"Are you... are you all right, ma'am?" comes the tentative voice of one of her junior officers. She can almost picture him now: pecking nervously at a keyboard, blinking owlishly behind his glasses, and wondering what the standard protocol might be for his supervisor flat-out losing her marbles.

"You mean 'have I snapped yet'?" she chokes out. "Ask me again in ten minutes, I'll let you know." She pushes the button again, ending the conversation.

* * *

><p>Underneath the tragic 'beeline metaphor', the string of editor's notes continues:<p>

"EDITOR'S NOTE: YOU KNOW, I WAS GONNA SCRAP THIS, BUT I KINDA LIKE IT. —LET'S LEAVE IT IN.—"

**"Editor's note: Thank you, friend Rocket!"**

The phrase "let's leave it in" has been vigorously crossed out in green ink and answered with a firmly penned _"No."_

Under that, in red pen: "E.N. Cut them sum slak, Gamora."

_"Editor's note: Fine. But you still can't spell."_

"E.N. Luv you too, baib."

"_Editor's note: Obviously. ;)_"

"EDITOR'S NOTE: YOU GUYS ARE MISSING THE POINT OF EDITOR'S NOTES. IF YOU WANNA PLAY LOVEY-DOVEY, THEN JUST FRICKIN' DO IT IN PERSON: YOU'RE LITERALLY SITTING ON TOP OF EACH OTHER. ACTUALLY, NOW THAT I THINK ABOUT IT, I DON'T WANNA KNOW WHAT THAT 'OBVIOUSLY' WAS SUPPOSED TO MEAN..."

**"Editor's note: Yet you could have said all of that in-person, as opposed to writing yet another note."**

"E.N. YEAH... NOW THAT I'VE STARTED, IT'S HARD TO STOP. PLUS I NEED A BREAK. I CAN ONLY TAKE SO MUCH OF YOUR WRITING BEFORE MY BRAIN STARTS TO FRY."

* * *

><p>That more or less describes Nova Prime's sentiments about the page, as well. She flips ahead.<p>

The final page looks like a box of green text, wrapped in an uneven border of red chicken-scratches. Nearly every original sentence in Gamora's green has been replaced by a counterpart in Quill's red, and it's not hard to see why:

* * *

><p>"—<em>Upon securing the target in an infallible and timely manner befitting of world-class assassins and<em> _operatives, __the alarming, disquieting revelation was discovered of the blockage of the initial entry point: the blockage being contrived by remote directive by the mark and composed out of advanced robotic units, that, once brought to light, were a distressing hindrance in preventing the team from traversing the predetermined route by which Star-Lord had schemed to have the team escape, impervious and intact, toward the vessel of interstellar transport commonly known as the Milano and thusly dubbed by the riders therein.—_"

The entire paragraph has been crossed out and replaced by the following statement in the margins:

"[After securing the target, like the awesome assassins and operatives we are, we stumbled into an obstacle. Literally, we stumbled into an obstacle: the mark had summoned a robot barricade to cut us off from the Milano.]"

"—_Despite the unexpected formation of the robotic barrier, summoned without our knowledge by the mark while we were otherwise occupied by the target, we reacted and responded to the problem as expeditiously and promptly as possible, as the robotic unit in closest proximity to Drax was snatched out of its aerial path by the aforementioned enraged Destroyer and he applied pressure to it until it gave out in his hands, crumbling into a myriad of innumerable metallic pieces that shattered across the ebony floor like glass over stone, resulting in its immediate destruction.—_"

"[We reacted as quickly as we could. Drax snatched the nearest robotic unit out of the air and crushed it in his hands. The pieces shattered across the floor like glass over stone.]"

"—_Of course, in the ensuing chaos from Drax's preemptive strike that diverted the attention of the robotic units away from the horrified remainder of the team and towards himself in the minuscule span of less than a second, the remainder of the team acted wisely to take advantage promptly of said fact, and Peter, firing shots in rapid succession from an above vantage point from his blaster weapons, took advantage of the use of his jet-propelled devices that had been affixed to the outer layers of his costume to launch himself into the air to provide cover fire from above.—_"

"[As the remainder of the drones turned on Drax, we took advantage of their distraction. Boosting himself into the air, —the great and awesome_—_ Star-Lord peppered the drones with spray fire from above]"...

* * *

><p>Nova Prime is distracted from the remainder of the page by another trail of author's notes:<p>

"**Edito****r's note: Quill, if I had known why you were inquiring about the words 'great' and 'awesome', then I would not have told you how to spell them.**"

"E.N. YEAH, MR. VOCABULISTICS IS RIGHT. NO FAIR DUBBING YOURSELF 'THE AWESOME' UNLESS THE REST OF US GET SIMILAR NAME TREATMENTS. 'STAR-LORD' IS BAD ENOUGH. MAYBE I CAN BE 'ROCKET THE GREAT AND POWERFUL'."

"E.N. U do no your kwoting the Wizerd of Oz, rite?"

"E.N. THE HELL IS A WIZERD OF OZ."

_"Editor's note: Irrelevant. Focus."_

"E.N. OH, SO WHEN IT'S THE EDITOR'S NOTES, YOU'RE ALL 'MISS CONCISE', BUT WHEN IT'S OUR NECKS ON THE LINE, YOU DECIDE TO WORD VOMIT?"

"E.N. Shes got a poynt, teem. Let's focuss."

"**Edito****r's note: I would take your order to 'focus' more seriously if it were spelled correctly. You have no excuse: Gamora just wrote it out for your benefit, two lines ago.**"

* * *

><p>Nova Prime's shoulders shake with silent laughter. To the group's credit, though, the rambling thread of editor's notes ends there.<p>

Oddly enough, the thing that finally does it for her—the thing that finally tips the scales—is a clumsy charcoal drawing at the bottom of the last page: a sketch of the Guardians on their ship.

The sketch demonstrates very little artistic talent—if any at all—but it has been drawn with great care. The defining features of each teammate have been painstakingly penciled in. The edge of the scanned image is punctuated with a bit of twig taped to the page: literally, a 'stick figure'.

Additionally, it appears as if each Guardian took the time to embellish his or her stick figure:

The signature headphones and musical player on Quill's figure have been shaded red—the same red as the chicken-scratch edits on the page.

Gamora's figure is holding a very detailed, accurately proportioned reproduction of her signature blade, drawn in green pen.

The charcoal smudges on the upper body of the Destroyer's figure have been edged in black ink, to improve their resemblance to his tattoos.

As for the figure of the raccoon hybrid, horizontal blue rings have been added to the tail. And in the same shade of blue, in the familiar all-caps, the following caption is printed below the image:

'HOME'

BY GROOT

(TRANSLATED BY ROCKET)

Nova Prime shakes her head, and she can't help but smile. She reaches for the intercom. "Denarian Dey," she says, not quite able to hide the amusement in her voice, "would you please stop by my office? I have a message for the Guardians."

* * *

><p><span>Twelve minutes past deadline<span>

"So... you're going to fire them, aren't you," Rhomann asks ruefully. As their handler, he has been pushing for the Guardians to survive the cut—he owes them his family's lives. But if their mission report was abysmal enough to induce hysterical laughter from the otherwise unflappable Nova Prime... then that couldn't be a good sign.

But Nova Prime smiles. "Actually, no," she says. "No, I think we will be employing their services for a long time to come. In fact, I'd like you to offer them the Yormot job. After that, maybe even the reconnaissance mission on Terra: observing the 'Revengers' or the 'Assemblers' or however they are called."

"Oh!" Rhomann breathes. "Uh, good!" He's relieved, but also very, _very_ confused.

"You think I'm making the wrong call?" his supervisor asks.

"No, not at all!" he says. "The Guardians are a little rough around the edges, sure, but the potential is there. I'm just curious... What did you see in that mission report, that made you change your mind?" _Other than scribbles and sarcasm and second-grade spelling._

"What I saw," Nova Prime says, "what I _finally_ saw, for the first time since Ronan, in fact... was a team." She smooths out the pages in front of her. "Seeing this report come together—seeing the Guardians use their strengths to balance each others' weaknesses—has more than answered my questions about their place with the Nova Corp. The first step towards successfully managing a team mission is successfully managing each _other_, and the Guardians have finally demonstrated to me that they are capable of that. They have shown that they are capable of working together—and I couldn't be more pleased," she finishes with a smile.

Rhomann blinks. "All that from crayon drawings, ma'am?"

Nova Prime shrugs. "I read between the lines."

"That's... that's terrific news," he beams. "I'll contact them right away about the Yormot job. If they take it, I can bring them in, prep them as usual."

"Perfect," Nova Prime smiles. "Send them my regards, and inform me if they accept. That will be all, Rhomann," she nods, dismissing him.

He turns to leave, then pauses. "Ma'am, one more question, if I may."

"Yes?" She waits expectantly.

"Shouldn't we tell them how mission reports are usually written? That they're a hundred words, if that, and follow a format that basically goes: Here was the mission, we did it successfully on such and such a date, if there were any complications we'll lie and say there weren't... the end?"

"Denarian Dey, I'm surprised at you," Nova Prime says, feigning shock. "You would pass up the opportunity for more of this?" She indicates the report in front of her, in all of its haphazard glory, and her lips curl up into a smile. "Where would be the fun in that?"

* * *

><p><strong><em>Author's notes:<em>**

**So, there you have it! I'm following my gut and considering this story complete for the time being. (Although if the plot bunnies attack, I can't make any promises that future mission reports won't pop up...)**

**Also, to give credit where credit's due, many of the planets and systems mentioned in this story are a nod to the lovely little story "In the Rays of a Beautiful Sun" by _xahra99_.**

**As always, thanks for reading and reviewing!**


End file.
